


A bed too big for two

by Elisexyz



Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (All three of them are together), Angst with a Happy Ending, Dysfunctional People Being Dysfunctional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gaby Has Abandonment Issues, Illya Should Not Have Left Them Alone, Multi, Napoleon is Bad At Feelings, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26899354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: That night, Gaby lies on top of him with her head on his naked chest, her fingertips trailing lightly up and down his arm.“You know they are never giving him back, right?” she asks, quietly. Napoleon hopes she couldn’t somehow hear the way his stomach dropped.Something pushes behind his eyes as he swallows through the lump in his throat, the words getting stuck on his tongue for the few seconds that he dares thinking thatyes, he knows, he is notstupid—He snorts. “A little bit of optimism wouldn’t kill you, darling,” he jokes, the corners of his mouth twisting up.Gaby doesn’t say anything else, and his grin lingers.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller, Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Series: Whumptober 2020 (TMFU) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964011
Comments: 23
Kudos: 98
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	A bed too big for two

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Don't Say Goodbye" and "Abandonment" prompts from day 8 of Whumptober. It got _long_ , apparently I was having fun with the angst LOL. Also, shout out to my friend who listened while I screamed at her about this scenario, she's a wonderful enabler <3

They have been standing around in silence for too long. Napoleon can feel the seconds ticking by all too fast, making the situation more and more ridiculous and urging him to come up with something, literally _anything_ , to fill the silence.

“Alright, well,” he eventually says, flippantly, letting the words fall out without much thought. Illya seems a little startled, thrown out of his brooding state. “Say hi to Mother Russia for me. I’ll think of you when I’ll be enjoying some reasonable weather.”

Illya shoots him a very unimpressed look, the right corner of his mouth twisting up _just_ a little, and then he’s back to looking like he’s heading to a funeral, lips pressed together and his fists clenching and unclenching every few moments. He isn’t even looking at him in the eye, nor trying to.

Now, Napoleon would think it very reasonable to be upset when being ordered back to _Russia_ , and not even during _summer_ , but he gets the feeling that he knows what is actually running around Illya’s head right now.

“She’ll get over it,” he says, reaching out to clap him in the arm and trying to appear as light-hearted and convincing as he can.

Illya’s eyes finally land on him, and he looks rather dubious, which, fair. Napoleon doesn’t _actually_ think that Gaby will get over it any time soon, but she will _pretend_ that she has, which hopefully won’t be easily detectable over the phone. So, really, he’s just taking a bit of a poetic licence here.

“You know how she is,” he says, his tone still light. “You leaving makes her sad, so she’s mad because she doesn’t like it when we make her feel human emotions. By the time you call, she’ll just be happy to hear from you.” He pauses. “Actually, there’s a good chance that she might be mad at _me_ for something by the time you call.” That could be a good strategy, actually. Reminding her that Illya is the least infuriating partner out of the two.

Earlier that morning, she said she wouldn’t come to the airport, that she had paperwork to finish before the next mission. She gave Illya a kiss on the cheek and a quick hug as a goodbye, and then she practically _fled_ out of the apartment. She didn’t yell at him, she didn’t even _voice_ her discontent with the whole thing, but she’s been so short with him since when he got called back to Russia that, really, she might as well have.

Napoleon gets it: she hates this, and people who leave hardly come back in her experience. Still.

Illya doesn’t look half as reassured as he would have hoped. He swallows, crossing his arms tightly as his eyes dart away. “Are _you_?” he asks then, his voice rough. “Mad at me?”

Napoleon opens his mouth, if to answer or out of surprise he isn’t sure, but no words seem to want to come out.

Is he?

Not really, mad is—no, it’s not the right word. He’s pretty upset, he supposes, he’s resigned, because there isn’t much that they can do about it, and he’s thoroughly unsurprised, because of course Illya is going to go.

“No,” he says, calm and actually honest. “It’s not your fault. They ordered you back.” He snorts. “What are you supposed to do, quit?” He throws it at him like bait that he doesn’t even realize _is_ bait until he feels the tug in his stomach that tells him he _wants_ something. Usually, that something is a painting, a pretty bracelet, something that he can _get_ , if he applies himself.

Right now, he wants Illya to prove him wrong, to do the exact opposite of what he expects of him, to say _Fuck Oleg and fuck the KGB, I’m staying here_.

But, of course, he would never.

Illya stares at him for a few moments, clenching his jaw. “I couldn’t.”

No, he couldn’t.

Napoleon smiles, wide and showing no teeth. “Of course not.” He is not surprised. “So, you’ll just go, do whatever it is that they need you for, and then come right back to us.”

They both know that it will hardly be that easy, that so many things could go wrong and that there isn’t even any guarantee that they will want him for _one_ mission, or two, or twenty—they might never send him back again, but Napoleon is _not_ thinking about that, thank you very much, and he’s certainly not _saying_ it.

“Alright,” Illya says, slowly, _staring_ at him with—ah, great, he’s _tearing up_ , and Napoleon can feel alarms going off in his head, because god, no, _seriously, Peril, you are a spy, please don’t cry on me_ —

Before he can fully contemplate what a disaster a crying fest would turn out to be, Illya steps forward and pulls him into a tight hug, all but crushing him in the process. Napoleon lets out a slow breath, bringing up his arms to embrace him back, a small smile tugging at his lips in spite of everything. Illya is trembling, not too subtly either, and Napoleon squeezes him a little tighter, rubbing his back and trying not to be _himself_ for a second.

Because there are a million stupid things that he can think of saying to get himself out of that uncomfortable silence, to chase away the thought that he’s _leaving_ and he _really_ doesn’t want this to be a goodbye, there’s nothing he can do to stop this and _I really want you to stay_ —

He wants to pull back, put a few steps between them, say a few parting words and _go_. But Illya is clinging to him like his life depends on it and, well, he is the one who is going to be all alone for who knows how long. Napoleon and Gaby will have each other, at least. He can let him have one uncomfortably long hug.

When Illya does step back, he looks rather devastated, which only makes Napoleon want to grab him and hold him again, for as long as it takes to make him lose his flight, possibly.

Instead, he gives him his best smile. “Good luck out there,” he says, because when in doubt stupid platitudes are your friend. Not that he doesn’t mean it or Illya doesn’t need it.

Illya nods. “You too.” He pauses. “Be careful.” It reeks of worry from a hundred feet away, and there’s a part of Napoleon that feels a little vindicated, knowing that he won’t be the only one concerned.

“Me?” he grins. “When have you _ever_ known me to be anything _but_ careful?”

The highly judgemental look that Illya gives him is so familiar that it opens a pit in his stomach and lifts tons of weight from his shoulders at the same time.

“We’ll be careful,” he vows, his smile only a natural extension of the warm affection in his chest. “Promise.”

Illya nods, staring at him for a few moments like he wants to say something, but eventually he only collects his bag, taking a step towards leaving. He stops, hesitating.

Napoleon’s smile widens, his throat closes up, and the best that he can manage is a wave. He wonders if he’s selfish enough to ask him to stay. He thinks that he might just be too much of a coward to face the answer.

Illya acknowledges him with a head gesture and turns around mercifully quickly. Napoleon just lets him take a few steps before he’s turned on his heels himself, heading straight out of the airport and to his car without looking back.

All the way there, it’s only a matter of breathing in and out, _don’t turn back_ , then he fumbles for the keys, gets in the driver’s seat, closes the door with a deafening sound.

_I’m fine, I’m fine—am I? Yes, it’s all good. In and out, just drive_.

It’s not that difficult, really, to take a deep breath and push everything back, straighten his shoulders and make focusing on driving his current objective. A small mission, if you will, and he’s always been good at compartmentalizing during those.

He should be driving to the office, where Gaby and Waverly are waiting for him so that they can be briefed on their new mission and leave, probably soon, thank god, but—well, it’s not like he was given a precise time to show up at. He doesn’t have to head straight there, does he?

He just needs five minutes to himself.

Home, when he gets there, is deathly silent. It’s almost enough to make him step right back out.

Instead, he heads straight to the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, because he’s feeling a little lightheaded and the last thing that he needs right now is a random fainting spell. The silence presses against his ears hard enough to hurt, and the best he can do is stomping his feet to make some noise.

There are three mugs in the sink, because of course there are. It makes him a little sick, and he’s quick to clean them up, get them out of the way. Out of sight, out of mind.

In the bedroom, Illya left a shirt on a chair. It’s an old one that Gaby likes to sleep in occasionally, and he very much doubts that it was done by accident, considering how meticulous Illya is about his things. It’s probably a peace offering of sorts, but he isn’t sure if she will appreciate it or get even madder.

He grabs some paperwork that Illya left for him to bring to Waverly and that he obviously forgot to take in the morning, and he finds a bunch of messy notes in Russian alongside it. Smiling hurts a little, but he still stuffs the notes in a drawer, just in case he later needs them for—something.

Suddenly, with a lump in his throat and his hands itching, he really needs to check on Gaby.

The first thing that Gaby does when she sees him is giving him a rather unimpressed look.

“Took you long enough,” she says, chin up and shoulders squared, like she’s ready for battle.

God, this whole thing is going to be _such_ a nightmare.

Still, something in him unclenches at the sight of her, and his smile comes out mostly genuine. “I took a small detour home. How was the paperwork?”

“Fine,” she says, curtly, definitely detecting the teasing note in his tone. “How was the airport?” she counters, with carefully crafted boldness.

“Awfully touching.” She does a good job keeping her expression neutral, if not for a minute twitch of her mouth. He hardly would have noticed, had he not known what to look for. “He said he’ll call as soon as he can,” he adds, gentler.

She clenches her jaw, standing up without warning. “Waverly’s waiting for us,” she says, walking past him without so much as a second look.

He represses a sigh, following suit and somehow hoping that they will become two functional individuals _before_ this situation drives him insane.

They don’t talk about it, because of course they don’t.

They get their new folders and plane tickets, listen to the directions that they are given – though those are not many, it’s mostly surveillance. Waverly seems slightly concerned about their state of mind, giving them a few odd looks and fidgeting with his hands over his desk, but he’s at least smart enough not to say anything outright: Gaby would have obliterated him.

On the flight to Copenhagen, Gaby takes out a book and buries her nose in it, hardly saying a word to him throughout the whole trip. He doesn’t really feel like trying to play therapist anyway.

As long as they have something to do, folders to read, a plan to set up, things run pretty smoothly, everything feels almost normal.

The problem arises come night, when they are lying in the dark, too many inches between them and not a word exchanged in spite of the fact that they both know the other is awake.

Gaby is lying on her side, her back on him in a clear request to mind his own business, and he _would_ , alright, except it’s late, and they have to work tomorrow, and though he knows she’s loathe to admit it she sleeps a lot better when she isn’t alone.

A lot of the time, they keep Illya between them, and she curls up by his side or lets him hug her from behind. Those times when it is just the two of them in the bed, she lets Napoleon do the same.

Experience tells him that the fact that she’s so pointedly keeping her distance means that she _really_ needs a hug right now.

Alright, so, time to do something about it.

He lets out the biggest, most audible sigh that he can. “I’m _so_ cold,” he laments, theatrically. “I’m so _terribly_ cold. Aren’t you cold? Should we do something about that?”

Gaby huffs, but she doesn’t turn. Well, Napoleon is nothing if not persistent.

“What do you think, should I go look for some nice lady willing to keep me warm? Do you know any such ladies around here? The ‘nice’ bit is optional.”

That drags a snort out of her, and just like that she’s shaking her head, uttering ‘You are such a child’ and rolling towards him, to grab his arm and tug at him in an unmistakeable invitation to come closer.

He grins, satisfied, and quickly crawls his way towards her side of the bed, pulling her against his chest while she cradles his hand under her chin.

“Now, _sleep_ ,” she says, gruffly.

It isn’t all that hard to obey, with her comforting weight against him and not a concern in the world.

-

The first time that Illya calls, Gaby is still so unapologetically _pissed_.

They are back at home, Illya’s shirt has mysteriously disappeared, they still haven’t talked about it and when she answers the phone Napoleon can tell who it is just by the look on her face.

She makes some polite conversation, nothing to say to that, but it’s all cold as ice, her mouth pressed into a tight line whenever she isn’t speaking. Honestly, it makes him shiver just to _witness_ it.

He isn’t sure if it’s been five minutes or five years when she passes him the phone, what he does know is that he didn’t know how much he’d missed the sound of that Russian accent until that little piece of his life settled back into place. That, and that he is the one who is now supposed to do some damage control.

He chatters away, about some new foods that he tried on their last mission and office gossip that he knows Illya secretly revels in and some useless trinkets that he saw in a shop yesterday, and though he didn’t buy – nor steal! – any of them, he lets Illya complain about him being unsatiable and wasting money on stupid things.

He feels _close_ , for a little while.

Then, of course, comes the quiet ‘I must go’, and the words to answer slip out of him with a cheeky smile and his head already somewhere else, his fingers clinging to the phone for a few moments after the line goes dead.

When he turns, looking around a room that’s somehow grown a little bleaker, Gaby is already long gone. He snorts, because it is not at all surprising, and he decides that he will make waffles for dinner.

-

The world keeps turning, the missions keep coming, and they still haven’t talked about it. Napoleon figures that, well, they are both adults and neither of them quite _talkers_ , they will deal.

And dealing they do, namely by swimming in alcohol while staying at a fancy hotel in Spain. Gaby is already half-gone by the third glass, and she’s _smiling_ , finally loose and carefree, and Napoleon thinks that they should do this more often.

They still don’t talk, but they dance around to crappy music, trashing a bit of furniture in the process, and it all ends in drunken sex that’s a bit of a mess but is so stupidly _fun_ that, really, who even cares? Gaby should giggle more often, it’s so weird yet so cute. He thinks he likes her laugh better, though, the big one when she tosses her head back and wheezes with every other breath.

They really should do this more often.

Except, no, they shouldn’t, because the next morning they have to work, neither of them is really up to the task and they almost get themselves killed. It’s like he can _feel_ Illya hovering around them and disapproving of their life choices.

(The next time Illya calls, Napoleon’s arm is still in a sling and Gaby still winces whenever she bends her right knee. He tells him nothing about it, and Gaby goes out to ‘run an errand’ before he can pass her the phone.)

-

He finds Illya’s shirt, the one he left behind for Gaby, hidden at the bottom of a drawer.

“Can I take this?” he asks, turning to her and holding it up. He keeps his tone even, but he’s pocking at her for a reaction, waiting for anger or irritation or _something_ — “I mean, if you are not using it…”

She gives him next to nothing, clenching her jaw and glaring at him for a brief second before turning her attention back to the castle of cards that she’s building on the floor, at the foot of the bed.

“You can keep it,” she says, sharply. “I don’t want it.”

Of course she’d say that.

Ah, well, whatever, he _was_ looking for a spare shirt to begin with.

“Tell me, exactly for how long do you intend to hold onto that grudge?” he asks, lightly, sliding into the shirt and lying backwards on the bed, keeping himself up on his elbows so that he can look down on her.

She gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look. “Why should I play nice?”

He raises his eyebrows at her, because the answer is rather obvious.

She snorts, shaking her head as she turns back to her work. “He made his choice. It’s alright by me, but don’t expect me to act like he didn’t just drop us without so much as a protest.”

He huffs, one corner of his mouth twisting up. “That’s rather dramatic, don’t you think? You know how it is, you go where they order you to go.”

“Wonderful to know that should Sanders call you’d be on your way too,” she comments, so bitterly that it seems to slice through the air.

“Now, now, I didn’t say that,” he’s quick to correct her, with his best angelic smile. “If he tried to get his sticky hands on me again, we’d just run to one of my hideouts that the CIA has no idea even exist. Early retirement, we’d be disgustingly domestic and soon bored enough to join a circus, probably.”

The look that she gives him says ‘You are such an idiot’, but her smile is still awfully warm.

-

Napoleon is in the middle of a long tangent on American politics, because he hasn’t heard from him in over two months and it turns that he had a lot of pent-up things to share, when he realizes that Illya hasn’t made a sound in quite some time, that he’s just breathing, like he’s _sleeping_ , or close to dozing off anyway.

“I’m sorry, am I _boring_ you?” he asks, only half joking in his outrage.

Illya sounds startled as he attempts to justify himself. “ _Uh—no, I was just—I’m sorry_.” It sounds a lot like some exhausted sigh, and Napoleon feels cold dread gripping his stomach, because, really, it’s been a while, anything could have happened.

“You sound terrible,” he says, bluntly. “Are you alright?”

Illya sighs, and he can easily picture him as he rubs his temple. “ _I’m just tired_.”

Napoleon hums. “Tired as in ‘I have slept eight hours in the past week’ or as in ‘I’m on death’s doorstep and you’d better start packing for my funeral’?”

In spite of his light tone, that catches Gaby’s attention, her eyes snapping up from the paper she’d been reading and narrowing when they fixate on him.

“ _I’ll be fine_ ,” Illya says, after a not too reassuring pause, just as Gaby mouths ‘what happened?’ at him.

He shrugs in response to her, then he plasters a smile on his face and asks: “What happened, did the mission go awry without help from yours truly?”

Illya huffs. “ _I was working with incompetents. It wasn’t my fault_.”

“Well, that is what happens when you drop top quality partners like the two of us, nothing is ever going to compare and you are now _very_ spoiled,” he jokes, realizing a second too late that it’s probably a little too openly bitter and Illya is _not_ going to feel good about that— “Do be careful, though, alright?” he adds, gentler. “We need you back here in one piece.”

For a few moments, Illya says nothing, and Napoleon has to wonder if he should just sew his stupid mouth shut. “ _I’m trying_ ,” comes the eventual answer, quiet and so guilty that it makes him want to run as far away from the phone as he possibly can.

Fortunately for him, Gaby has now decided that she’s too worried to keep being pissed, and it’s with utter amazement and quite a bit of selfish relief that Napoleon passes her the phone when she asks, watching as she has probably her most involved conversation with Illya since when he left, even if it’s just to grill him about taking decent care of himself. Gaby’s mothering is always harsh and relying pretty heavily on reminding people that they are utter morons, but Napoleon is sure that Illya is appreciating it now more than ever.

As for him, it’s warming and familiar and he can’t stand to watch it for more than a few minutes. He leaves them to it, disappearing in the kitchen because it’s almost time for lunch anyway.

That night, Gaby lies on top of him with her head on his naked chest, her fingertips trailing lightly up and down his arm.

“You know they are never giving him back, right?” she asks, quietly. He hopes she couldn’t somehow hear the way his stomach dropped.

Something pushes behind his eyes as he swallows through the lump in his throat, the words getting stuck on his tongue for the few seconds that he dares thinking that _yes_ , he knows, he is not _stupid_ —

He snorts. “A little bit of optimism wouldn’t kill you, darling,” he jokes, the corners of his mouth twisting up.

Gaby doesn’t say anything else, and his grin lingers.

-

Napoleon had never realized how many notes Illya sticks around the house before: they are _everywhere_ , in half of his books, in random drawers, in the _bathroom cabinet_ , for some reason even in his recipe books, which he’s pretty sure Illya had no business getting his hands on.

Every time he finds one, he gets a little giddy and a little nauseous at the same time, and he stuffs them in his pocket or pretends he didn’t even see them, depending on the day.

-

Once, they get drunk together – _after_ the mission is over – and he starts doing silly accents to make her laugh. It starts with a – spot on, honestly – Waverly impersonation, moving on to a French accent and some American ones until, without thinking, he tries for a Russian one and the temperature in the room drops.

He has enough decency to change the subject and never mention that she has to furiously wipe a few tears away.

(Also, human decency aside, he’d rather keep his face as it is, thank you.)

-

“We should get a new bed,” Gaby says once, already getting dressed while Napoleon is still sprawled under the sheets, in the middle of the mattress.

He knows that she means they should get a _smaller_ one, meant for two, so that they don’t have to turn around and find an empty spot.

He snorts. “I am _not_ carrying a bed up the stairs without Peril to do all the heavy lifting,” he says, lightly, letting her pitying look wash over him. “Plus,” he says then, turning on his stomach and spreading his limbs so that he’s taking up double the space. “I like this one.”

-

Every now and then, their neighbour asks about Illya. She’s an elderly woman who took a shine to the big Russian softie always offering to carry her groceries and to do odd jobs for her in her apartment, and every time Napoleon puts a big smile on his face, lies through his teeth and promises to let him know that she said hello.

Sometimes, for the span of a conversation, he even manages to fool _himself_ into thinking that it’s just a little trip, that it will be over before they know it.

-

As they approach the door, Napoleon is too distracted by his dinner plans – because Gaby is not a big fan of most fancy food and if a miracle happened and she’s letting him prepare an overly pretentious dinner, he’s going to make the most of it – to notice anything amiss before she stops dead on her tracks and he bumps into her.

“Did you leave the lights on?” she asks in a whisper, her fingers still on the handle, the door only half-way open and her eyes fixated inside as she takes a subtle step back.

He frowns. “I did not,” he says, slowly, because he _didn’t:_ they have been out all day, and when they left in the morning there was enough sunlight that turning the lights on wasn’t needed to begin with.

She curses under her breath, getting out her gun as he sets the groceries aside and does the same. He follows as she enters, taking slow breaths and easily slipping into the right patterns, letting the knowledge that he’s at _home_ fall in the background and leaving room only for his search for a target.

What they find is—not that.

It’s Illya passed out on the couch.

What the—

“What the _hell_?!” Gaby yells, lowering her gun and making Illya immediately jump in a sitting position, looking like they just gave him a stroke. It takes a few moments of furious blinking and hands twitching to grab some kind of weapon for his eyes to focus on them and his stance to relax.

“Oh—hi,” he says, slowly.

Napoleon blinks at him, not entirely convinced that he isn’t hallucinating. He doesn’t take his eyes off him for a second, every muscle in his body holding still as Illya pushes himself on his feet. Honestly, he almost turns to ask Gaby if she sees him too, though it’s pretty clear that she does.

“What were you _doing_ sleeping on the _couch_?!” she says, still too loud, definitely accusatory.

Illya looks like he wants to blend into the nearest wall. He shrugs. “I was on train to Moscow for five days, then I took plane to London. I was more tired than I realized.”

That sounds—that sounds reasonable.

That sounds like Illya packed his things and came back home and crashed on their couch like at the end of any long day.

And maybe he’s just visiting, maybe he’s come to announce that he will leave again to never come back, but Napoleon pushes that possibility away, a smile twisting his face with no chance of him stopping it and a vague thought about how it’s a good thing that he insisted not to replace the bed flashing through his head.

With a little bounce in his step, he darts forward, until he’s ungracefully crashing against Illya and pulling him into an overly enthusiastic hug that he hopes won’t betray any inner meanings.

Such as _oh, thank god_ and _I’m going to keep you trapped here forever_.

“Welcome back, Peril!” he chimes, feeling Illya’s arms wrapping around him in return and his stomach churning when he realizes just how _badly_ he’d missed the way his chin fits over Illya’s shoulder. “I bet you missed me terribly,” he grins, relief washing through him in waves.

Illya doesn’t answer immediately, squeezing him tighter. “Sometimes,” he says, with no trace of humour in his voice.

He doesn’t have a good answer to _that_ , so there is really not much to do besides pulling him into a kiss. He doesn’t believe it’s possible to make up for months of absence in such a short time, but they definitely give it their best try, pressed against each other like they can never be close enough. He feels Illya’s fingers down the side of his neck, and he finds himself putting everything he’s feeling into a smile, pushing harder against him because he has to do _something_ with this, and crying is definitely not it.

When they pull apart, Illya gives him that little delighted smile of his, pressing their foreheads together for a few seconds, and everything is right in the world.

That is, until Gaby’s voice cuts through, dry and unforgiving.

“So, how long will you be staying?”

When Napoleon steps back and turns to her, he finds her standing more distant than he’d thought, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.

“They can’t call me back again,” Illya quickly says, before Napoleon can even think of how much he _doesn’t_ want to have this conversation. “I’m working for Waverly now—I am still KGB agent, but they need Waverly’s permission to take me back to Russia, and he said he won’t give it if I don’t want to.”

He looks a lot like a puppy awaiting judgement, and Napoleon would probably feel bad for him if he weren’t so busy looking for the catch. Because _this_ sounds like an excellent deal. Assuming that, well, Illya isn’t going to get nostalgic and decide he likes his motherland better than them. Again.

Gaby hums. “And _do_ you want to?”

Illya shakes his head without a second of hesitation. “Not for as long as you will have me.”

Napoleon knows them both well enough to guess that Illya is waiting for her to throw him out, and that Gaby is considering it, because she can be spiteful like that, even more so when she’s scared. He doesn’t know what he’d do in the face of that, he’d have to be a peacekeeper, and he’s _definitely_ not letting Illya go anywhere just because Gaby is in the mood to look at the gifted horse in the mouth—

Thankfully, she breaks into a brisk smile, a little forced, a little crooked, definitely not _warm_ , but still a smile. “Good,” she only says, before she’s stepping forward and coming to claim her own welcome back kiss.

It’s soft and a little too quick, though she lingers for a few moments with her lips slightly parted from his and her thumbs stroking his cheeks. Soon enough she’s pulling back, Illya instinctively moving a step forward as if not to lose contact with her.

“I need a shower,” she excuses herself, walking out without waiting for an answer.

A wonderful beginning, really.

Napoleon does sort of salvage the situation: he pulls Illya along when he goes to retrieve the groceries, he explains to him what he had planned, assures that there’s enough for three, though if he wants to eat he is going to have to pull his weight and he is _not_ allowed to go back to napping.

Illya obediently chops vegetables at the sound of Napoleon’s chatter, looking like there is nothing else he’d rather be doing and giving him so many affectionate looks that a few times it feels like he might just burst in flames right then and there under the weight of them.

Which would be a safety hazard while cooking.

When Gaby comes back, she joins the efforts, looking less withdrawn than when Illya first showed up, though Napoleon still notices that she’s skirting around him a little. Hopefully, Illya is too busy enjoying the night to realize it.

All in all, it’s a pleasant evening, and Napoleon can’t even bring himself to be particularly cross at having to forgo some good and earned reunion sex at the moment, given that Gaby probably isn’t in the mood and Illya looks tired enough to fall asleep as soon as he hits the pillow.

As a matter of fact, after dinner Illya ends up back on the couch, asleep in a matter of five minutes at most.

While getting the kitchen cleaned, Napoleon dares taking a long look at Gaby, the tight set of her jaw and the tension in her shoulders as she washes the plates impossible to ignore.

“So,” he says, conversationally, as he grabs a plate to dry. “He came back.”

Gaby doesn’t so much as raise his eyes on him. “He did,” she agrees, neutrally.

Napoleon feels the very suicidal urge to say ‘I told you so’, so instead he opts for a swift change of subject, grilling her for compliments on his food.

(She doesn’t really deliver, but there’s a slight grin on her face, she almost looks relaxed again and he is not in the mood to get offended anyway.)

“Peril? Wake up,” he calls, gently enough, giving his shoulder a slight shake.

When Illya lazily opens his eyes, blinking at him with the face of someone who is thoroughly confused and just knows that he’d like to get back to sleep, he can’t keep himself from smiling.

“You need to go to bed, and I am not carrying you,” Napoleon explains. “Come on, up.”

Illya huffs, muttering that he’s fine right there and trying to curl back onto himself to get back to sleep, but when Napoleon tugs at his arm and insists for him to get up and “Trust me, you’ll thank me in the morning”, he obeys, swaying a little bit on his feet and yawning.

It would seem that there is no more adorable sight than a teary-eyed KGB agent dragging his feet to the bedroom. Who knew.

Illya settles in the middle of the bed, lying on his back with one arm under the pillow and his legs bent, making a noise low in his throat as he gets settled. Napoleon doesn’t even consider getting him into more comfortable clothes, directly joining him instead.

Gaby is not far behind either, but while Napoleon wastes approximately thirty seconds before he’s inserting himself in Illya’s personal space, wrapping one arm around his torso and using his shoulder as a pillow, she keeps a bit of unusual distance, turning her back on them and curling on herself.

It makes him irritated in an odd way, the frustration at her and need to tell her off for taking the whole thing so _personally_ clashing with an urge to reach out and not let her be alone, likely as that would be to get him his hand bitten off.

Gaby turns off the light, quickly wishing him goodnight, and in the darkness, with Illya’s arm tight around him and something within him finally _settled_ again, he ends up letting it go, thinking _good enough for now_ as he drifts to sleep.

He wakes up warm, feeling the urge to _move_ , like there’s a reminder of something that he needs to do pushing in the back of his mind.

When he opens his eyes, though, it’s to Illya lying under him, half-crushed because Napoleon has a habit of _spreading_ during the night, so he ended up wrapped around Illya’s torso, with one leg thrown over him too, for good measure, and the only thing that he can feel for a few precious moments is relief.

He looks up to Illya, a smile that he has no intention of smothering bubbling at his lips, and the only reason why he doesn’t give in to the urge to pull himself up and kiss that beautiful face is that everything is too _right_ to move.

God, this bed really was too big for two.

He remembers that, before the lights went off, Gaby was keeping to her side of the bed, careful not to come too close to Illya, curling up on herself rather than around him. Now, she’s tucked at Illya’s side, his arm squeezed between the two of them and her fingers clinging to his sleeve. She’s smiling faintly, now that she is not trying to be mad.

Napoleon lets out a breath, closing his eyes again as he nuzzles against Illya’s shirt. Maybe there’s hope just yet.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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